


Click

by XTAIGAX



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, M/M, Violence, War, luna is not a shallow character here, major character death will come later in the story, slight AU, there is blood, war photojournalist Prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XTAIGAX/pseuds/XTAIGAX
Summary: Prompto Argentum is a war photojournalist-for-hire, having put down his gun for his camera. The Kingdom of Lucis is at war with Niflheim, a previous arrangement having fallen through when King Regis learned of their plans for sabotage, and, by extension, his son Noctis Lucis Caelum. Declaring war against an Empire with futuristic weapons that ran on human lives was not an intelligent move, especially with such low intel, but Prompto had an eye of a sharpshooter, and a trigger finger that matched his shutter speed.This is the story of how a camera outlived its owner.





	1. Meet your Royal Majesty

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is going to be relatively short, just a sort of introduction into the story, but the following chapters should be reaching the 2-4k word mark.

A beautiful young girl, crying, her scraped knees folded under her as she buried her face in the stuffed animal – so ruined, so destroyed – with shoulders drawn up to her ears. Like she could hide away from the explosions and loud noise, like she could be curled up in her own little protective world and not see the immediate danger she was in. He wanted to protect her, but his job here was to document. He wasn't allowed to intervene. Always looking through the world from a distance, from behind a camera lens.

_Click._

A stray bullet grazed his arm, something like a feeling of condensed heat shooting up to his shoulder, but he ignored it in favor of photographing the man who had shot. A sword clashing down from his assignment's hands, sharp blade tearing through metal and skin. Blood didn't spurt upward and outward like in movies, no. Maybe an initial spray, something small, before it dribbled out like a waterfall of rubies hiding underneath matte oblivion fatigues. Just another person slain in fighting for what they believe in.

_Click._

He wasn't new to the battlefield, having done his own freelance work long before the king himself hired him as an assignment. But was it really an assignment if the king wanted him to take his own photos, see what he had seen?

_Click._

All the blood, and the wounded, and the new infantry who were barely able to even drink ale?

_Click._

The men and women who simply had wanted to fight for what they believe in, not registering that it would be another person's life at the end of their swords and bullets?

_Click._

His shoulders shook as he rolled out of the way, his own fatigues with 'PHOTOGRAPHER' written in bright white flashing before dirtying more, the white barely a distinguishable spot against his equally dirtied fatigues. The man had taken a moment to fall, his muscles having barely registered he was no longer alive to hold up his weight, and the first – and only – time he had been caught underneath a dead man, the other had developed rigor mortis before anyone had found him, scrounging the area for survivors. He still had nightmares, though they stopped bothering him as much as long as he didn't think about it.

He had basic training. That's all a war photojournalist required. So he wasn't prepared for a man to step on his wrist, pinning him lest he wanted a broken wrist and camera. Eyes dilating in equal amounts adrenaline and fear, he froze, staring down into the barrel of a gun the approximate size of his forearm. His hair was plastered to his forehead with grit and dirt and sweat and blood-that-wasn't-his, so the darkened blond impeded his eyesight, not even seeing the face of the man who had pinned him.

But he did see the prince, barely a breath of blue before the man above him let out his own soft breath, the attack so quick that he didn't register until he was already dead and falling. Raising his free arm, he managed to twist the man away from him. Teal eyes the color of a sunrise over the Galdin Quay studied him, staring down at him before he offered his hand, seeming satisfied that he wasn't an enemy who had just been unlucky to be pinned under a comrade.

In the back of his head, he realized that the prince staring down at him, haloed by the sun and dirty and ragged but still looking regal and dignified, may have been a great moment to capture. Maybe the king would've been pleased that his son was still all the dignity and grace that royalty should be, even out on the battlefield. A few extra gil wouldn't hurt if he managed to get in the king's good graces.

Instead, he took the prince's hand, barely getting his feet planted to move up when he was pulled near effortlessly into a standing position. Staring up to the man in front of him, he straightened up immediately, realizing this man could execute him for disrespect and not be questioned.

He looked amused, staring at the photographer before calling out over the sound of bullets and explosions and screams, “Chop chop, Argentum. It's not photographing itself.”

And then he disappeared again, in a breath of soft blues while Prompto was left fumbling, barely ducking and moving to the side as another shot, too loud and too close, rang out.

He may have sprained his ankle, and the Oracle, Lunafreya, may have huffed out a quiet laugh as he healed him later, after the enemy had withdrawn from the territory, wrist and ankle warming with his heart as he listened to the soft noise. Lunafreya seemed amused, for some reason, though she didn't tell him why, and only proceeded to let out a whole-hearted giggle with crow's feet eyes and pale pink lips upturned in knowing.

It confused him, but he went to the barracks anyway to grab his bag, leaving behind the war, if only for a short, unspecified time. 

 


	2. Negotium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ne·go·ti·a·tion  
> nəˌɡōSHēˈāSH(ə)n/  
> /noun/  
> noun: negotiation; plural noun: negotiations
> 
> Discussion aimed at reaching an agreement.

Being a war-photojournalist was rough, really.

It was being given the same training as a regular infantryman – “Though that's not a bad thing! They do so much for us...” Prompto would later think, stammering, as though he was trying to explain to himself – and then given the inhibition of looking through a camera and trying to focus. Like being given a sniper rifle and thrown into the middle of the fray, instead of lingering outward and upward. Lucian wars were a lot more hands-on and close combat, considering most of their troops were given swords and daggers and axes, like medieval knights going to war with androids. The Kingsglaive and Crownsguard – though the latter was rarely seen in actual wars, as opposed to battles at the royal family's side – were exceptions, as they had been trained, and they were notorious and lethal in their ways. Regular infantry? It was an almost unfair fight, given most magiteks, while some were endorsed with axes and maces, were primarily equipped with a rifle. Simple, but given the relatively unknown state and near robotic movements of the magiteks – MTs – it was...

It was something Prompto didn't like thinking about.

But the unknown nature of the MTs left little in ways of strategy. And yeah, maybe they were a little scary, too, with blood moon eyes peering through their visors.

Which is why the cameraman – a simple cameraman who just wanted to document war, and show the general public what was happening! – froze on the spot.

“I understand hesitations in this endeavor...” King Regis had started, his normally ice stone eyes warmed in the comfort of his home, in the comfort of knowing that they may not have won the war, but they had won the battle. Crow's feet were prominent in the corners of his eyes, perhaps a small smile under the salt-and-pepper beard, as though he had thought that maybe Prompto's reaction had been funny. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his side, trying to work out the adrenaline running through his veins, fingers itching to point and shoot, point and shoot; whether it was a gun or a camera, he didn't mind. Barely opening his mouth, a soft rasp running past his lips in an attempt to maybe reason that he wasn't the best choice, hell, he wasn't the _only_ choice, the King raised his fingers in a minute gesture, one that had him snapping his mouth shut and leaving him almost shaking. He couldn't necessarily refute the _King_ , could he? Not when it was a demand-masked-as-a-question?

“But previous photographs and videos had given us a bit more... insight, into a magitek trooper. You understand that this is disclosed information, so sadly, I cannot share with you our theories. However, you will be rewarded, as I understand this is a life-endangering trade. I do not demand that you become the official photojournalist, as the option of war is always a self-made decision, though I do ask if you would be willing.”

Shoulders relaxing from their previous defensive position, the option mulled over in his mind. Being in a regular war was one thing, where both sides were simply men and women fighting in what they believe. There had even been fights between the Kingsglaive and daemons that Prompto had documented, though that was more for his own self-satisfaction. Magiteks were far from a horribly dangerous cry, but there was so little information on the deal the King was giving him to work upon, it was almost like a trap.

“I...” he started, voice cracking before he cleared his throat, straightening himself, “I'd like... to know the conditions of this job before I give an answer.” While Prompto Argentum was not the smartest around, and sometimes his common sense was a little on the uncommon side, he was no idiot. The only reason why someone would purposely leave out that much information – pay? Bunking? Time span? Who else was coming? How dangerous was it? – was because there was something they knew the other wouldn't like.

The king merely dipped his head in a gesture of understanding before leaning forward, leaning heavily on his cane as he slowly sat up, the adviser to his side gently and discreetly pulling him to his feet. Being a king was no light decision, but the King of Lucis was more drastically affected, the Crystal that protected their city from darkness and daemons draining the life like slow-moving poison. He was barely in his mid-forties, yet he already looked like he was twice his age. Feeling a twinge of guilt that discussing terms had made the king rise so painfully, Prompto instead kindly dipped his head, eyes lowered as the king passed him by.

The adviser at his side paused to give him a scrutinizing look before moving forward again with a chin held high; Prompto took the look as a silent invitation and followed after, moving timidly to stifle his boot steps that echoed, foreboding, in the throne room.

The throne room had been more wide than large, perhaps prepared more for a smaller, closer crowd than that of a further, larger one. But the doors they had finally walked through that lead to another room, one that was wider with a long table splitting the room into two, like a decisive canyon through the area. Already, there were two others; the prince to the king's right, and another male next to the prince. Long, almost shaggy hair with an undercut was swept away from piercing, untrusting eyes, as though he's run his fingers through it multiple times. The prince looked almost bored, though his eyes seemingly brightened when he recognized Prompto, as though he were expecting someone else.

He still had the same bored look, though, so it was probably just the ray of sun swiping across his face.

Unsure of where to sit, Prompto stayed standing at the other end of the table, though it left more than a good few meters between him and the rest of the group. The king sat down, slowly, and let out a soft sigh of relief as though the action had drained another few years off of his life. Ever-loyal, the adviser sat to his left seat, green eyes flickering to the man beside him before focusing on Prompto, sharp and crisp, as though appraising him and demanding he be worthy and royal enough to even seek an audience with the king, though it had realistically been the other way around.

Peering up from under blond bangs, nervous blue irises, barely a ring around nervous dilated pupils, darted from the shaggy-haired man to the adviser to the prince before finally, slowly, settling on the king. Salt-and-pepper beard lifting almost in a smile again, his face quickly hardened into a stoned face before he leaned back into his chair, chin raised as he gestured. “As you were told, we know next to nothing about Niflheim's magitek troops. However, the photographs we had received from you on behalf of your last assignment have been nothing but informational. We were looking to employ you as an assigned war photojournalist in an upcoming reconnaissance mission my son is to lead. I cannot give you specifics until you are contractually assigned, in fear of sabotage. Ideally, the mission may last two weeks, though it may be even more so, and we seek to pay you in terms of photographic evidence rather than days you have spent on the mission.”

The king paused, his chest raising a bit but slowly, as though he were hiding his shortness of breath, and Prompto ignored it in favor of letting the king keep his strong front in his presence. As though picking up a silent cue, the adviser finally spoke, his voice light and accented heavily, “You will be paid handsomely for each clear picture you take of either the inside of the base, or the magiteks. As I said: clear picture. Lighting is not an issue for modern technology, however, we must be able to identify the objects in the picture. You'll be given three memory cards for use, all two hundred fifty six gigabytes of storage. Your specific model of camera should be able to hold the amount of memory, but if not, we can easily switch the cards for you.”

Taking a moment to adjust himself, sitting up straighter, the adviser touched his glasses to hitch up higher on the bridge of his nose before he added, “As said, you will be paid handsomely. Ranging from three to five thousand in dependence of the information to be gathered from the photograph. A picture of the inside base may be three thousand, while something more crucial such as commanders and close images of the magiteks may reward you more.”

Prompto was too busy splitting his lip with his teeth, eyes wide and confused. Had the Kingdom of Lucis needed information so badly? Especially to pay this much?

“You are to accompany the mission; it is only a small group of trained individuals. All lodgings and expenses will be paid by His Highness. Do you accept?”

It would be career suicide not to take the mission. While Prompto was used to cover in a crowd of people, watching everyone else while no one paid attention to him, he didn't mind the idea of a small group. Narrowing his eyes, he mulled over the pros and cons the best he could without a sheet of paper and a pen. The only cons in the mission that he could duly note was the lack of cover, though that was quickly exchanged with the fact that he would be getting coverage from the prince and his two retainers – though weren't there supposed to be three? Perhaps he wasn't old enough to need to have all three already, which gave them time – so Prompto mulled over other points. Gil? Not an issue. Protection? Also not really an issue. Lodgings, guarantee for pay, safety of the assignment itself?

It seems the only reason why he wouldn't take it is his own terrified misconceptions of the entire two weeks.

“I accept,” he finally breathed, shoulders squaring and head raising. If there was anything that he could be confident about, it was his ability to shoot an amazing picture in a split second, and his sharp shot. The king looked almost as though he had expected it and nodded toward the green-eyed adviser to his side. Already, the man's hand was in a briefcase at his side that Prompto hadn't seen coming in, and a stack of papers maybe a quarter of an inch thick was gently pushed toward him, just enough that the papers only fluttered, a pen clipping them together. He still had to reach a bit for them, his cheeks flushing when he realized he had to press his belly against the polished surface – wood? Marble? The color and texture disoriented him – to grab them with his fingertips.

Flipping through the papers, skimming through paragraphs, Prompto almost became impatient when he saw how many papers he had yet to go through.

It seemed all simple; lodgings are paid for, expenses within reason, no coup d'etats, no murdering the prince and his friends, life isn't guaranteed...

Yeah, it was the regular stuff.

Signing at what felt like the end of every paragraph after he had skimmed through it, Prompto looked back up, focusing on the king again, though it felt improper. “Thank you for your services,” King Regis finally spoke, the other three at the table standing before Prompto stumbled up himself, the graying man finally pressing himself upward in the almost same pained way. Again, Prompto dipped his head humbly, leaving the man to have his moment of a carefully construed visage.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” the adviser spoke, dipping his head respectfully. The shaggy-haired man peered to him before tilting his head in a gesture. “I'm gonna lead you to your room. If you got your camera, you got everything you need. You'll get fatigues in the morning, and we're leaving at o'eight hundred sharp. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

Tensing at the sudden tone, Prompto's eyes widened before he stiffly stood up straight, stammering an almost confused, “Y-Yes, sir!” Shaggy-haired Man seemed pleased, his head raising and lips quirking up, butterbeer-colored eyes glinting in something akin to mischief. All that did was make him swallow nervously, inaudibly.

Once again he was lead outside of the room, the prince leading the way with a decidedly unprincely slouch to his shoulders, as though he were nonchalant about the situation. Shaggy-haired Man was beside him, a little behind, with the adviser off to his other side and closer to Prompto than the prince. They lead him up regal-looking stairs, slowly turning to the right, down a hallway, and through another set of stairs. If Prompto hadn't been following the three men and had been simply given directions – “Take the first flight of stairs, turn right, take the next flight of stairs, turn into the third corridor on your right, watch out for the small one, that counts–“ – he would have been lost.

Finally finding his room, the prince and Shaggy-haired Man – he needed to find out his name, just so he wasn't still calling him that on his assignment – continued down the hallway, the adviser pausing to offer his hand; his fingers with long and thin, not dainty like a woman's, but thinner in a way that said of holding power to words and maybe magic than another. His fingernails were manicured and immaculate, hardly a callus and no signs of mistreat and neglect. Realizing he had been staring, Prompto offered his own callused fingers, a trigger finger splint on both forefingers causing his finger to settle straight and give the adviser a weaker handshake.

It was almost embarrassing, considering the man nearly broke his hand in the shake.

“Considering our current arrangements, I believe an introduction is in order. Ignis Stupeo Scientia.”

“P-Prompto Argentum.”

“I'm keenly aware,” Ignis replied, moving a hand to press his glasses up from where they minutely slipped down the bridge of his nose. Focused mossy eyes stared at him, and before he could fidget a bit at the uncomfortable attention, Ignis turned around, following the trail that the other two had disappeared through. Slowly lowering his hands, Prompto licked his chapped lips before turning and pushing into the room. It was large, the bed easily at least a queen mattress, and Prompto immediately lit up, kicking off his dirtied boots and tugging off his shirt and baggy pants, pouncing into the bed. Letting out a soft huff of a laugh when he bounced back up a few inches, he immediately moved to curl underneath the thick comforter, sinking down a bit into the plush bed.

He relished the softness and warmth surrounding him, knowing that sleep and comfort would be the last thing on his mind for a while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've sort of sorted through how I want this story to go! Since I'm going to try to start up working on BMHMiS again, and I have school/two jobs/a vacation coming up, I'm probably going to try updating this every other week. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the first chapter was pretty satisfactory! Like I said, this one's gonna be short, just because its a bit of an AU, and an overload of information about how it came about while in a war zone is going to leave it a bit short and choppy. Additionally, I have the next chapter in progress for 'Maybe His Medium is Three', for my Wincestiel readers. School/work/hospital trips/homelessness left little muse for something that was a bit of a luxury.


End file.
